The Tell Tale Heart: A Victorian Sherlolly Story (The Missing Scenes)
by Emma Lynch
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson live as Detective and biographer in Victorian London. After solving the case of Countess Morcar and The Blue Carbuncle, John Watson supposes, as it almost Christmas, normal life will resume. However, Sherlock Holmes has met mortuary girl, Molly Hooper, and life will never be the same again. These are the missing scenes from The Tell Tale Heart. Enjoy
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This story (in five parts) is meant to fill in the missing scenes merely alluded to in my last story, The Tell-Tale Heart. It can be read alone, but I would recommend reading The Tell-Tale Heart (A Victorian Sherlolly story) first.**

 **To summarise, the characters are BBC Sherlock in appearance and some degree of manner, with a fair selection of Victoriana thrown in. Sherlock Holmes is a famous and feted detective, John Watson his biographer and friend and Molly Hooper a poor mortuary assistant at Great Scotland Yard, with plenty of potential. There has already been a spark between her and Mr Holmes.**

 **If you have already read it, then let us commence - the story is afoot!**

 **Emma x**

* * *

" **Now Watson, the fair sex is your department," said Holmes,**

 **with a smile, when the dwindling frou-frou of skirts**

 **had ended in the slam of the front door. "What was the**

 **fair lady`s game? What did she really want?"**

 **(The Second Stain, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle)**

* * *

 _ **Part one: The Secondary Appointment**_

 _24_ _th_ _December, 1895_

 _Baker Street,_

 _London._

 _A quarter of two o`clock._

"Will there be a reply, Mr Holmes, sir?"

Fresh snow dapples the unruly curls of Wiggins as he bounces impatiently upon my doorstep, attempting to retain the warmth acquired from his run across town. Truly, the December air holds its chill as evening seems a mere lamplighter`s reach away, and I can hardly fail to note the threadbare appearance of his muffler and scarcity of winter woollens (street boys are rarely warm and always hungry).

Thus, I attempt focus again on the neatly penned missive, slightly smudged by an errant snowflake, and inwardly curse my sudden lack of focus. I know there should be a reply, hastily scrawled and passed to Wiggins to return to the sender of this message, and I most certainly do not wish to keep the poor creature waiting upon me a moment longer than necessary in this climate, however …

 _`I should like to request a further visitation upon you this afternoon, if convenient. – M. Hooper.`_

I read the fourteen words (and signatory) for most probably the seventh time, and vacillate again. Wiggins hops from one foot to the other, attempting to warm his chilblained toes. The boots Mrs Hudson passed onto him are already half a size too small.

"Need more light, Mr Holmes?" His lantern (though scarcely needed) is held aloft, casting a faint sheen of amber across the rough paper. It smells of formaldehyde. And soap.

The penmanship is hasty, yet compressions show firm purpose and decisiveness; a certain strength of character and aura of confidence in their mission; a request, yet n`er an expectation of rebuttal.

And suddenly, I find I am nodding down at the note, and that I have an answer for the impressively patient Baker Street Irregular on my doorstep ( _Mrs Hudson, being inordinately embroiled in the fate of her culinary preparations, has temporarily refused all butlering duties until her oven and her pantry are replete_ ) and I scribble upon the paper, folding it and bidding him away with a tuppence for his trouble before I can amend my choice.

Three little words.

 _`And if inconvenient? SH.`_

It is, therefore, with unrestrained glee that I meet little Billy the Page upon the stair, barely twenty-five minutes later, and exchange with him a shilling (!) for Wiggins` promptness for the folded note (further amended with the blue-black ink of a woman`s hand).

 _`Then I shall come all the same. M. Hooper.`_

And as I shroud it away into the pocket of my waistcoat, I find I can do nought but smile.

 **~x~**

 _ **Part two: An Evocation of Loss**_

 _24_ _th_ _December, 1895_

 _221B Baker Street._

 _A half hour after four o`clock_

As I raise my gloved hand to the bell pull, I inhale deeply (despite the bite of the cold air entering my oesophagus), and momentarily close my eyes against the polished blackness. I have cause to be familiar with the frontage of 221B Baker Street since it is my second visit today, yet my current, unescorted visit serves to fuel my heart with trepidation, and there is a slight element of hesitation as I ring the bell and throw my fates recklessly into the mercies of a cold December afternoon. As my dear father would have said, without venture there can be no gain. What on earth would that fine and decent man do if he were here today to see the plight of his daughter, calling unattended upon a man she has barely known one week.

 _What would he think of such a man?_

A small, flaxen-haired boy answers the door, and I am momentarily relieved to note a lack of landlady (housekeeper?) to make imagined judgements. He nods solemnly, taking my name and leading me along the darkened hallway, lined with green carnationed wallpaper and gas mantles already lit and flickering; there are seventeen stairs leading upwards and they could easily be a perilous mountainside. I adjust the small package in my hand, wrapped in brown paper and mortuary string, and prepare to ascend.

I pass a well-populated coat rack, complete with a large and familiar black greatcoat, top hat and muffler and several walking canes. An odd familiarity suddenly strikes me as I tread upon the fourth stair (the creaky one, as I now recall) and a forceful and redolent image pushes its way into my brain. A polished, blackened mahogany cane with filigree silvered top (I turn to see it once more amongst others in the rack), almost identical to my father`s favoured stick and long since sold to raise funds for those left behind. I turn hurriedly to face the retreating back of the young Page, but it is already too late and I am there again; at his ending.

 **~x~**

 _Soft and muffled, the sobbing is impossible to either ignore or assist, and the heavy, dust-laden curtains block out the bright July sunshine in a manner so alien and bizarre as to be almost offensive to my already over-stimulated brain. I want to rip them open and show the Lord in his heaven this scene; my father – my beloved protector, the man who would lift me high above his shoulders and tell me how I could achieve so much in this world if my spirit was true and honest – struggling; gasping; drowning in plain sight, and there being nothing anyone stood around him in that darkened room could do to offer relief or succour. Recent months have been witness to a cruel and crushing ebbing of the strength of such a once powerful and charismatic man. By this time, he has been barely able to lift a kerchief to his face or a cup to his lips, and the look in the eyes that sought mine betrayed a sense of fear, confusion and shame –_ what is this? How can this be? _Hands, pale and ghost-like, clutching starched white sheets (how are they so bright in such tenebrous circumstances?) and the smell of carbolic, antiseptic and the miasma of despair, all pervasive and penetrating all inhabitants of that dreadful chamber._

 _I kneel beside a bed (a huge receptacle for such a tiny, shrunken patient) and I grasp that hand, attempting to imbue it with my own warmth and life force; a tether to the world._

" _You must stay," I whisper._

" _Little Molly, I cannot." A voice of crackling, dried leaves, yet a voice with strength of purpose._

" _I cannot afford your loss." A solitary tear trembles and threatens to spill, opening untold floodgates. "It cannot be borne."_

 _My throat is tight and my body a stretched wire; taught and pulled to an almost impossible tension._

 _He smiles at me. My daddy._

" _I have to go," he says._

 _And that is all._


	2. Two

My name is Sherlock Holmes, and it is generally my business to know what others do not.

I am loathe to trust in general impressions upon meeting a person, and much prefer to concentrate on the details, for therein will usually lie the solution to the problem they are presenting me with. So often have I (perhaps, foolishly) expounded to Watson, my faithful chronicler, that I never make exceptions, since exceptions will always disprove the rule, and from thence, the whole house of cards shall come tumbling down. So, I merely sit and listen to their story, they listen to my comments and I pocket my fee. A simple transaction of skills allied with commerce, which usually leaves all parties satisfied.

 _Usually._

A creak upon the stair ( _fourth_ ) serves to anchor my thoughts to the here and now as I stand, knock my pipe out on the grate and shrug on my morning coat, just as I would do to receive any client or visitor. I also turn to glance in the mirror, and to smooth back an errant curl which has evaded itself of the pomade applied hours before (a constant struggle, I fear) and note that my eyes hold a slightly disconnected look which I do not recognise. This is something I _do not_ do to receive any client or visitor, and therein now lies my problem.

The emotional qualities are usually quite antagonistic to clear and sound reasoning, and the past seven days have introduced me to an influence that may prove quite fatal to my beloved processes of deduction, and yet I find such an _influence_ impossible to resist.

Another creak ( _the fifteenth stair_ ) and I turn towards the closed door in preparation to receive her. The rough note burns within my waistcoat pocket as if it were imbued with a metaphysical combustion, and I monitor my own breathing (prickling skin, warmth of face) with a sinking, almost inevitable fearfulness.

A knock, a boy`s voice and a door cracking wide open into a yawning chasm, breeching the false safety of the room –

And in walks Miss Margaret Hooper, her auburn head inclined downwards ( _an almost stricken expression across her face which swiftly fades as a fixed smile breaks into her small, curved mouth_ ) until she looks up, and her eyes lock onto my own –

And I instantly know that I am _not_ safe _;_ _not at all._

 **~x~**

 _ **Part three: An Absence of Passion**_

 _24_ _th_ _December 1895_

 _221B Baker Street_

 _A half hour of ten in the morning (earlier that day)_

Mr Sherlock Holmes inclined his dark head in deference to the older, titled lady but his tensed shoulders and slightly clenched jawline gave him away. He disagreed with her, but he knew better than to distress her by extensive dissension. She had, quite clearly, suffered much in recent days and must be allocated a degree of serenity until further notice. As tiresome as a conscience can sometimes be, Mr Holmes quite frequently has cause to be grateful to John Watson for it.

Instead, London`s most prestigious (and only) consulting detective proffered Mrs Hudson`s Darjeeling and contemplated the rather more pleasing news regarding the opportunities now being offered to Miss Molly Hooper (lately humble mortuary girl at Scotland Yard, now protégée of the Countess Morcar, willing assistant at the Marylebone Dispensary for Women and doctor-in-training).

"A most deserved and fortuitous opportunity," added he, grasping at a crystalline nugget of cane sugar with infinite care and focus. There was a silence hanging fraught amongst the tea things, however, which seemingly could not be ignored by Miss Hooper, a girl who sometimes finds etiquette a quite needless restraint. He looked up and discovered her deep brown eyes silently challenging his own. Sherlock Holmes dropped the sugar into a cup, and the resultant loquacious `plop` punctuated the moment perfectly. He lowered the tongs and raised one dark brow.

"Miss Hooper?"

"Mr Holmes, if I may be so bold?"

He found it difficult to supress the sudden quirk that threatened the corner of his mouth, but bowed towards her in acquiescence.

"You appear to doubt the true motivations of Mr Ryder and Miss Cusack which led them towards these dreadful crimes." She has replaced her china to the table so that her hands do not betray her nerves. She had seen him at his most vulnerable the very day before, but with such a brain at its optimum power, she felt the full force of _the Great Detective_ through the opia of those shockingly blue eyes that look right through a person and wrangle the knowledge from them, without either agreement nor accordance.

His voice came soft, but deep and resonant.

"Miss Hooper, I do not claim to know with depth the full vagaries and vacillations of the human heart, but I do understand that there are women in whom the love of a lover extinguishes all other loves, and I think that Miss Cusack must have been one of these. It remains astonishing to me that both allowed their judgements and loyalties to those who had treated them with nothing but generosity and fairness, to be so shamefully lacking."

Mr Holmes looked away towards the mantel, since he felt a strange and sudden disconnection from his words; almost a hesitance in his phrasing, but he soon recovered and reached towards his pipe, cradling its walnut bowl in the palm of his cupped hand. It offers comfort, oddly.

"How, Miss Hooper, can you explain such a cataclysmic lapse in both intelligence and percipience? These were moderately intelligent people, after all."

A tiny frown appeared between the bird`s wing brows of Miss Molly Hooper, but she does (upon this moment) keep her counsel, and the last words of the exchange are offered by the aged Countess herself (not without the tiniest quirk of her own):

"We must now take our leave, Mr Holmes, and I can only thank you again for your most consummate work in this dreadful matter. I may not shed light upon your conundrum regarding the misguided passions of my ward and her paramour, suffices to say, love is a subject to itself alone, and knows no other empire than its own. A very good morning to you, sir."

 _ **~x~**_

 _24_ _th_ _December 1895_

 _221B Baker Street_

 _A half after four o`clock_

"I feel I must speak with you – "

"How can I be of assist –? "

An embarrassing collision of greetings results in a confusion of niceties as Sherlock Holmes offers me seating (near the fire), hot coffee and the benefit of his glacial gaze and gallant posture by the mantel. All this takes a matter of moments, from whence we face each other, unsure of how to proceed. Without the presence of the Countess Morcar, I should go so far as to say we are … _awkward_.

He gathers himself, pushing a stray piece of hair back in an unconscious gesture I had not previously seen.

"Mrs Hudson?" I venture, inclining my head towards the stairwell.

"Ah, kitchen … consternation." A pause and an expression of puzzlement. "Christmas." He adds, with a hint of exasperation, as if the single word explained all manner of inconvenience (perhaps it did).

"I see."

A clock in the hallway ticks sonorously, punctuating the laden silence. I nervously and unnecessarily adjust the wrapped package next to my feet and I know I must speak; but how to begin?

"And Doctor Watson?"

"Joining me for supper, I do believe. He did make mention of a bird," (that crease appears between his brows once more) "although that may have been yesterday; (looking at me) I sometimes have lapses in time when thinking." A slight smile hovers about his mouth and I find I can look at nothing else.

More ticking, accompanied by the clatter of hooves from a brougham passing in the street below and I launch into the abyss.

"Mr Holmes, I must ask you – have you ever heard of what the French call ` _crime passionnel` –_ a crime of passion?"

He is no longer smiling, but regarding me, steadily.

"Indeed, Madam. An act of violence, usually murder, resulting from a surge of emotion; anger, jealousy, hatred – "

"And love."

He blinks. Once. Then once more.

" – a strong impulse, such as rage, rather than a premeditated crime," he continues, as if ne`er I had spoken.

"Cusack loved Ryder with an overwhelming passion, Mr Holmes. There was nothing she would not do to please him. His passion was what he considered to be his rightful inheritance. Both acted with an absence of reason, of true clarity; they let their hearts rule their heads and all ended in disaster for everyone. Their passions ruined them."

There is a minute pause, as if the racing engine of his brain was assimilating and corralling my synopsis into appropriate elements.

"This I know, Miss Hooper. Such ridiculous notions have brought me some of my most stimulating cases; the twinkle in the eye, the arsenic in the soup."

And thus, I am reminded once more why I have returned to this room on this day, with this man.

"I cannot allow this opinion, sir." And I sit rigid in my chair, staring straight ahead (believing my chin to be firm and my eye steady).

"I … beg your pardon? _Allow_?"

Sherlock Holmes puts down the pipe he has been fiddling with upon the mantel and deigns to seat himself in the chair opposite mine. No longer towering above ( _he: the great advisor; me: the lowly client?_ ) but upon an eye level.

"Your disregard sir, for passion, for the humanity who fear a loss so greatly, that they act instinctively (sometimes savagely) to appease that loss, to find solace, to make it right. I truly believe, Mr Holmes, that a _good_ detective sees the detail, shows an infinite capacity for taking pains, follows the faintest of trails to the truth, but a _great_ detective understands the passions of his clientele, having the ability to empathise, to show rapport with those around him."

I feel a little breathless, for truly, I do believe that I have just told Sherlock Holmes how he might aspire to become `a _Great Detective_ `.

"I assure you, Miss Hooper, that I do not disregard the passion and desires that drive these people towards their chosen paths – "

"Yet earlier, you appeared not to grasp the motivation of Miss Cusack and Mr Ryder."

"It was greed."

"It was _so much more_."

And here we sit; at impasse. I feel disconnected from convention, from reality. A person who has taken one step from the precipice and is now in freefall – nothing to lose. It is liberating – invigorating.

"Mr Holmes," my tone is softer, calmer. "There must have been a time, some part of your life time, that a fear of loss caused such passions to rise from within yourself? There are times we would do absolutely anything to keep a grasp of something we might forfeit; a time we might behave wildly and without reason for a few more snatched moments – "

Whether a sigh or exhalation, the softest sound in the quietest room halts me in my tracks, and as I pause I hear whisper of a single, desolate word:

" _Redbeard_."

 **~x~**


	3. Three

**Part four: Amissio fiduciae***

 _April 1864_

 _East Sussex_

* * *

 _A faithful retainer enters a large, well-appointed drawing room, lined with noble ancestry atop of silk wallcoverings; with fine crystal and china illuminating polished mahogany with tasteful disposition. His manner is one of concern and agitation._

 _A tall, greying but impressively deported gentleman stands beside the tea tray, bidding the man come closer by means of his Wedgewood._

" _Come, Moffat, have you still no news of his whereabouts?"_

" _Sir, Ma`am, we have looked all through the grounds. Mrs Moffat has searched from attic to cellar and there is no sign of the young gentleman, or the hound."_

 _A small, stoutly corseted, yet kind-eyed lady seeks out the gentleman`s face, exhibiting lines of worry etched across her brow. Her cup rattles jarringly as she places it in its saucer._

" _Vernet, we must enlist more help. Never has he been gone for so many hours," eyes dart to the grandfather clock in a darkened corner. "Why would he disappear in this fashion? No-one is angry with him; there have been no more poisonings."_

" _My dear, we shall find him – "_

" _And where is Mycroft? He will know the reason."_

" _Of course he does," a soft, silken voice, with a scintilla of impatience wrapped around it blooms forth from the doorway, as a tall, spare grey-eyed teenager, dressed in stark and improbable black wool, steps inside._

" _He knows, dear mother. Sherlock knows what you are planning for Redbeard and has taken him into hiding." Mycroft Holmes walks immaculately over to the tea tray, selecting a tea spoon as his parents stare aghast, and wonder for the umpteenth time from whence such children had emerged._

" _The dog is old and unable to retrieve or even walk properly, Mycroft. Be reasonable."_

" _Oh, I am reasonable, father, but you must try further elucidation with a ten year old friendless boy who has loved that dog as a playmate for seven years. Please, I would love to hear which phraseology you would utilise to tell Sherlock you were going to shoot his only friend."_

 _An awkward silence allows the faithful retainer to be excused to embark on further venery whilst reproachful glances are deflected effortlessly._

" _Mycroft, we never spoke of this in front of Sherlock. We both know how the boy dotes upon him," his mother`s eyes glisten, yet her son remains unmoved._

" _Mother, how often have I warned you that Sherlock does not need the obvious prompts of others. He knows father plans to shoot his dog because he has deduced it, from recent behaviours and actual physical evidence visible to him." He pauses as he stirs, and looks at both, affecting the disappointed glance of the parent himself. "You have both been incredibly remiss, despite my frequently proffered advice."_

 _ **~x~**_

 _I hear the creaking lock turn and I know Mycroft has found me._

 _No key exists for the ancient mechanism, but we both know of this hidey hole in the deserted east wing attic, and that a curved implement such as a shoe horn or tea spoon can open up the door._

 _Redbeard only notices after the second creak and it is only then I truly realise how deaf he has become. Staggering to his feet, his soft nose and silken fur snuffles into my neck and I know he is trying to hide himself away. I am in the smallest, dustiest, filthiest of spaces, with barely room to pick out the splinters from my knee or offer Redbeard a drink from my hand. All I had time to secrete was a bottle of warm water from the water butt and a handful of berries (a poor show this year, I believe) to sustain us, but I had been shamefully slow at realising how little time we had left and had to act quickly. I confess, I had been as blind as a mole, but it was better to learn wisdom late than not at all._

" _Here, boy, here!" I hiss as loudly as I dare, despite my imminent discovery, and gently hold each side of his warm, wet muzzle so that the bright, brown eyes can see me in the gloom. I want him to understand he can trust me; I will not let him go; I will not allow it._

 _It was really all so very obvious, but I had not wanted to believe the evidence of my own eyes. They say there is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact, especially when that fact is not a palatable one._

 _Firstly, my father is seen to be cleaning his old, detested Snider-Enfield shotgun, the one he refuses to take hunting on account of its poor loading and ill-fitting trigger. Its only benefit, as I recall, would be its quieter discharge that is more suitable for close range firings. I also noted delivery of a new box of cartridges for this weapon on Thursday last. At 2pm. It is not duck season._

 _Second, my mother yesterday (Friday) suggested I should accompany her tomorrow to the county show. I am dubious of her motives, since I know her raspberry crop to have failed this year (increased ordering of insecticide had no effect and plentiful sugar supplies remain in the downstairs pantry) and it is most odd a lady given accolades for her preserve-making should wish to attend encumbered with such poor offerings. I can only surmise she is taking me for the sole purpose of keeping me out of the way._

 _Thirdly, I intercepted a telegram two days since from Lawkes & Gregory, my father`s dog breeders, intimating a litter was soon to be weaned. All evidence points to – _a replacement _._

 _Also, a minor but essential point: as I pull his hot, silken body closer to my own, I detect the prominence of ribcage which verifies my noticing the increasingly smaller rations over the past ten days. From eight ounces to a current four. It is irrefutable. This can only be coupled with my name tally, which –_

" _Sherlock! I know you are here. You must come out; the Parentals are … concerned."_

" _I. Am. Never. Coming. Out."_

 _His dark head suddenly intrudes into our sanctum; our last remaining sanctuary, and I know all is lost._

" _You must," he says softly (not at all unkindly, which injures my heart a little more)._

 _Throwing my arms around Redbeard`s neck, I let him lick my face and snuffle his muzzle in my ears, hair and eyes, and I suddenly realise I am weeping._

" _Over – over the last seven days, Mycroft, I have counted – " I stop to hide my face. He mustn't see._

" _Counted what, Sherlock?"_

" _The n-number of times father said Redbeard`s name." There is no air to breathe in here; where is the air? "Last Wednesday, it was twelve times, which had f-fallen to nine times by Friday and six times by Sunday." It is so hot, but I will not let him go._

" _By yesterday, he didn't mention Redbeard at all! Not once! He`s m-making him disappear, and I will not let it happen!"_

" _Sherlock – "_

" _If they shoot him, they must shoot me too! Or – or, I will take father`s Enfield and I will shoot anyone who comes near him! I mean it, Mycroft, I do!"_

 _As he takes me in his arms, I am weak and boneless and unable to say or do anything more, and I am numb, utterly numb, but for the sensation of a softly plumed tail gently wagging its goodbye against my bare knees._

 **~x~**

* * *

 *** the loss of trust**


	4. Four

_24_ _th_ _December 1895_

 _221B Baker Street_

 _A little after five o`clock_

* * *

 _Redbeard._

"A – a friend? A pet?"

I look at Sherlock Holmes and note his proximity as a new and surprising element, even though he had moved very little. The brightest sheen of his eye, the curve of his cheekbone, the elegant sweep of his pale fingers across the antimacassar, and even the creak of the chair as he shifts within it. His face is altered. It exudes a deep and long-retained sadness that is so infrequently let loose upon the world; a vulnerability I must only marvel at.

"Yes," intones he, "a _friend_. I loved him very much. I would have both killed and died for him," he looks a little rueful at his own melodrama, but does not break his gaze. "I was, however, only ten years of age."

And I find that I may envisage that ten year old boy and understand how something changed for him that day.

"It transformed you. You gained a sense of loss."

"A veritable confutation of terms, Miss Hooper," he has recovered a little, but his eyes are still searching my own. "Yet you are convincing me of my own emotional frailties – "

" _No_." My tone bites strongly (I know it) but I feel so strongly he be bade to understand. I glance downwards, deferential for my outburst.

"It is no frailty, Mr Holmes, it is a strength." I am so aware of his presence, I attempt to disguise the rising heat of my face and prickling forehead by fiddling with the package I have brought, shoving it further beneath my chair, and I know he has seen it (but he will never deduce its contents) yet his eyes are still upon me.

"I lost much that day, Miss Hooper. I lost trust in my parents, and the ability to share hard, raw, debilitating feelings with my brother. It is always the battle with us now, neither wishing to show a weakness to one another. I have, for example, had his favoured walking cane in my rack downstairs for the past eight days, and yet chosen not to enlighten him on the matter. I know he is quite aware of its whereabouts and refuses, equally, to approach me, preferring to wait. Thus, we both wait; a great, nonsensical game that we play daily and pointlessly, and to wit, there can never be a winner."

I close my eyes before speaking; images, memories, revolving like a zeotrope ...

"My father had a stick exactly like that one. I loved my father so much, but he still left me and I still lost him, and I would have crawled barefoot into the vilest cesspits of this town to be allowed five more minutes in his world." My voice hitches, and I falter, yet am subsequently quite astonished when I feel the dry warmth of his hand as it covers my own. "People care," I breathe, eyes still shut, "for that is what people _do_."

"I understand," he says, softly, as he raises it to his lips.

 **~x~**

 _ **Part five: An Incurable Madness**_

 _24_ _th_ _December, 1895_

 _Great Scotland Yard, London_

 _A little after eleven at night_

* * *

I slump back into the welcoming warmth of the shifting cab as it pulls away, and honestly could not wish for a more well-received Christmas present. I must currently be sitting in the very last cab in London, since the idiocy of a city-wide shutdown seems to be an increasingly inevitable annual event, every 25th of December.

Do I appear truculent? Indeed, this is my nature and Watson has frequently chronicled ` _the waspishness of Sherlock Holmes_ ` in his tawdry tales. He can at times (it must be agreed) exaggerate my inability to tolerate others for comedic affect amongst his readership, since I actually do have a degree of fondness for my fellow man (if occasion allows). Despite the constant aura of disapproval emanating from every fibre of her being, my landlady, Mrs Hudson has frequently kept her counsel on my behaviours, and never actually christened me ` _the worst tenant in London_ `, as John Watson would have the populous believe. We are, in fact, rather fond of each other, and the true whereabouts of Mr Hudson will go with me to my grave.

The cab driver seems intent on making the most of his sole possession of the London thoroughfares this night, and I take tighter hold on the strap before he can fling me to the other side of the cab. I am tired, still slightly concussed and bewilderingly happy.

And what of Mycroft, the very epitome of the British government, and frequently the source of a most draconian style of unwelcome parenting? I know, despite our ridiculous rivalry that my brother cares a great deal for me, and I for him. Our childhood, when revealed, displays him as a protective force, showing understanding in a world that offered little towards myself. Then, to our Baker Street boys: Wiggins was almost rendered speechless (a rare occurrence) by my profligate scattering of coins earlier today. I intimated they spend it on footwear, but shall be little surprised when their empty bellies are filled most festively over the next few days. Watson, I am grateful to note, did not witness this uncharacteristic display of affection from myself; I have an international reputation to uphold.

Therefore, where does my truculence take me in dealings with Dr John H. Watson? My flat-mate, my biographer, my dearest friend. More than most, I have learnt to trust Watson, since his strength, loyalty, bravery and fair-mindedness have impressed and genuinely astounded me from the very day we met. Meeting him was my starting point back to humanity in this harsh, adult, often criminal world, and his loss would break my heart (whereas he himself would be shocked to discover that I have one). As the cab rounds the corner into Baker Street, I idly wonder to myself, what he would have made of my heart this day?

Ah ... _Miss Molly Hooper._

The moment I took her hand, I sustained the strangest clarity, seeing what I thought should not exist; those feelings which I had erstwhile dismissed.

"What is this?" whispered she, sitting opposite me, observing the curl of my fingers around her own.

"First hand evidence," I replied, without thought or artifice.

It was then that she laughed, and took fast hold of my hand (and I allowed it, for I seem overtaken by a madness within; a fever I cannot cure).

"You fill my brain attic with things I did not know I needed. I cannot allow you to _consume_ me, Miss Hooper." My voice is slightly hoarse and my face uncharacteristically hot – brain fever, perhaps?

And, dear reader, far from being rebuffed, she laughed once more and reached up to gently push back my (inexplicable) hair.

"You really need to start calling me Molly, Sherlock," she smiled ( _oh_ ), "until, that is, I am a qualified physician, after which you may call me ` _Doctor Hooper_ ` should you desire it."

Thus, I have taken to living by my wits, since my faculties shall not be trusted until further notice. Miss Hooper ( _Molly_ ) assures me things will settle down, and we can go about our daily lives and choices of occupation without disaster or interruption, but I remain unconvinced.

The cab pulls in (rather smartly) at 221B and I alight, seeing John Watson at the window with a _Lancet_ and rather mordacious expression beetling his brows, and decide our discussion might await another day. Perhaps tomorrow?

After all, it is Christmas.

 **~x~**


	5. Epilogue

_**Epilogue: A Gifted Understanding**_

 _Christmas Morning_

 _221B Baker Street_

 _A little after three o`clock._

* * *

Feet bound up the stairs, indicating both length of leg and barely restrained jubilance, and Sherlock Holmes enters the room, still dressed in his greatcoat, new blue muffler (Christmas gift from Mrs Hudson) yet without hat nor need for civilised entry.

"Good gracious, Watson, we have him! Exactly where I told Gregson. You should have been there!"

He casts off the muffler with abandon and whisks his formally abandoned glass of claret from the table (cheek by jowl with congealing goose and potatoes), drinking its entirety in one go.

My eyes widen, but I have seen this type of elation before.

"You are not serious Holmes? It was barely a rumour; a snippet of information. How you could have raced from here and located the forger in a city of several million people – "

"Ah, the joys of the festive season, Watson. City-wide closure makes everything so much easier. It turns out the substance beneath the finger nails was of mercurial origin. Unfortunately for him, the continuous handling of such a compound will shorten his sentence considerably, by nature of his own early demise by self-poisoning."

I shake my head, forever slightly shocked by my friend`s cavalier attitude to some of the more portentous and fearful elements of life.

"A touch callous, Holmes?"

He stops, about to bite into a dry cracker and cocks an eyebrow.

"Apologies Watson, I am quite forgetting myself." And he proceeds to fling himself into a seat, reach for a newspaper, realise there is no print on Christmas day, then close his eyes, allowing arms to droop either side of the armchair.

I put down my book and contemplate Sherlock Holmes. Since the previous evening, there has been an unusual comportment about him, which I may have ascribed to his seven percent solution if it had not been so asymptomatic of such drug use. I had seen him return from many a successful case (such as this one) jubilant and satisfied with a job done well, but the energy emanating from his long, coat-swathed body almost crackled and bounced skittishly around our sedate sitting room. It was unaccountable, bizarre, and my questions hung between us, latent and unspoken until the moment came.

A heavier (and more exhausted) creak upon the stair then heralded the arrival of Mrs Hudson (with whom we had shared a Christmas sherry that morning in thanks for her heroic efforts with the goose). In accordance with my own, silent predictions, however, she appeared less than festive towards Holmes after his swift departure two hours previously.

" _Shameful_ on Christmas day, Mr Holmes, to be leaping around London, bothering good Christian folks."

Holmes briskly turned his head, eyes sparkling and manner light.

"Criminals are as unpredictable as colds in the head, Mrs Hudson. You never quite know when you are going to catch one. Mr Breckenridge won`t be bothering fellow pugilists at the Alpha Inn for quite some time (if ever again). Your dinner was quite delicious; cold or warm, it shall serve me very well. I trust you found your present agreeable?"

As she fingered her jet cameo and allowed a tiny smile, I marvelled at his skills. Truly, the stage lost a fine actor when Sherlock Holmes became a detective, since his ability to manipulate was most shamefully effective. He was forgiven.

"And your muffler, it looked well on you," she commented, pleasantly, extricating it from the bookcase without exasperation, and picking various papers from the floor around his chair. "Oh, but you missed one – it`s always nice when there`s an extra gift you had forgotten about."

She held forth a small, brown paper wrapped box that had been shoved under the chair. It was tied with rough tape that my doctor`s eye recognised as mortuary string, and I instantly knew the provider of the gift.

Holmes suddenly sat straight, all light-hearted languor dissipated, and accepted the package from her hand. Both our landlady and myself offered him our most expectant and enquiring faces and I found I was enjoying myself enormously.

"I am curiosity itself, Holmes," I smile. "Who could it possibly be from?"

Looking betwixt us both, Sherlock Holmes gives up any attempts at subterfuge and rips off string, paper and lid in a single movement, peering within, retrieving a small note which had been written on rough paper.

"Goodness, I`ve smelt better Christmas presents," comments our landlady, as Holmes, ignoring the whiff of formaldehyde, reads it.

Then he is smiling.

"It is a gift from Miss Molly Hooper. In this package are several items, including a rare poppy head, an ancient coin and a full set of finger nails (including fingertips) which were all found within the belly of a giant rat, discovered in the luggage of a man recently brought into the morgue. He had lately arrived on the _SS Appledore_ , late of Sumatra. It seems the cause of death is, as yet, unknown."

Our landlady`s face, I note, is pursed in a moue of disgust at such a collection of incredible trophies; she shakes her head and hastily takes her leave, clearly fearing risk of their emergence from the box.

So, Holmes and myself are left alone, and as I both see _and_ observe him holding up the objects, sniffing and even licking (!) their surfaces, I feel I might know the legitimate cause of his strange malaise. I speak:

"You approve of Miss Hooper`s gift?"

"It is utterly fascinating; so much potential here – so many questions to answer."

A slight pause, whilst my flat-mate holds a mummified finger-tip next to his own for comparison.

"Excellent. And you must then know that I also have a question for you," say I.

He stops, looks up abruptly tilting his head towards me, an unfathomable expression which then breaks into a smile.

"I do, my _very dear_ Watson, and I can already tell you that the answer is ` _yes_ `."

And I pour us both a brandy to toast the day, as a fresh swirl of pale snowflakes emerges from an inky black sky.

 **THE END**

* * *

 **A/N: Ah, but what was Watson`s question? I suspect he was questioning if Holmes had `feelings` of a strong nature for Miss Hooper; even, if I may be so bold, if he was in love with her? Love? Fondness? A strong regard? I will leave you to your deductions. :)**

 **Thank you to everyone who read and commented on this little story. I really do appreciate all your comments and observations. I hope to be visiting this universe again.**

 **Until then ... Farewell.**

 **Emma x**


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